


Settle Down My Shivered Bones

by a_biting_smile (quickreaver)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Eating Disorders, Other, incestuous thoughts, serious codependency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/a_biting_smile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes John hunts without his boys, and sometimes he stays gone too long. His sons come up with a way to cope. It's not necessarily pretty, but it's what they do. (Read my notes, heed the warnings! Sam is 15-ish, Dean is 19-20.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settle Down My Shivered Bones

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fill for a prompt over at the now-defunct blindfold_spn. It totally missed the mark and got pretty plotty and angsty and is almost entirely lacking in the Naughty. It became far less about an eating disorder, and more about how unwell and co-dependent the Winchester brothers have become; regardless, **enter at your own risk!** Also, I'm not kind to John. This does not reflect how I actually feel about the character, but it had to be this way for the fic.
> 
> Feel free to comment any way you wish! Concrit, kudos, it's all good. :)

 

❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

 

Sam grabbed for the generic cornflakes again. Another banana. Three more slices of margarined toast. You’d think the kid had a hollow leg, the way he was putting it away. Probably went through a damned gallon of milk a day too.  
  
Dean stared with undisguised awe that verged on annoyance. Money didn’t grow on trees, and neither did food. Okay, well maybe food grew on trees in some worlds, but not in the Winchesters’. Dad had left them only so much cash before he’d headed out with Caleb after the abiku; the boys had to make it stretch two more weeks before John was slated to return. Kinda fitting, abiku being some sort of fiend that had no stomach and was compelled to eat constantly because it never got full. Like Sam.  
  
“What?” Sam snapped, having caught Dean staring, his cheeks fat with half-chewed food.  
  
“Dude. You’re a cow.”  
  
“I am not, asshat. I’m hungry. Sue me.”  
  
Dean dropped a spoon into his empty bowl. “You’re not a friggin’ hobbit. You don’t need a second breakfast or what the fuck ever.”  
  
Sam responded maturely by showing the entire contents of his mouth to Dean.  
  
“Nice, Sammy. Real nice.”  
  
Sam swallowed hard and glanced at his watch. “Gotta go. Bus. You’ll have to find someone else to bitch at.” He shoved off and with an over-stuffed backpack in hand, grabbed his coat and was out the door.  
  
“Cow,” Dean grumbled under his breath, glaring at Sam through the window of their shitty rental. Watched as his kid brother jogged to the corner, pack slung over one broad shoulder.  
  
At the stroke of fifteen, Sam had sprouted up to Dean’s height, a hair over six feet. His appetite rivaled a hyena’s; if it wasn’t nailed down, Sam ate it. Dean never remembered being such a scavenger at Sam’s age. Sure, he went from eating one bacon double-cheeseburger to two, but not from eating nothing but white-colored foods to everything in sight.  
  
And this torqued Dean beyond reason. He was charged with taking care of Sam in John’s absence, and the older Sam got, the more difficult the little jerk became. Hell, he wasn’t even _little_ anymore.  
  
Last time they’d wrestled for the remote, Sam’d had Dean pinned and Dean had resorted to twisting a fistful of Sam’s soft middle in a hard pinch to get him to back off. Left a helluva bruise. They tended to slack off the training when Dad wasn’t around to crack the whip and at this rate, Sam would look like a Biggest Loser candidate by the time John got back. And they’d be out of money to boot, forcing Dean to get creative. Sometimes that creativity involved hustling pool, jacking car radios and shoplifting, if they were lucky. Sometimes it didn’t, if they weren’t.  
  
Dean blew out a whistle of breath, stood, and collected the dirty dishes and discarded fruit skins. It was a wonder Sam didn’t eat the banana peels.  
  
Once the kitchen was tidied, he piled their collection of work boots out of tripping range by the front door. God, even Sam’s feet were enormous. Like a puppy who promised to become a Great Dane someday.  
  
Dean felt a pang of absence in his belly, brought on by the far-too-recent memory of a shaggy head short enough to crook under his arm, little fingers winding around his belly in the ineffable guilelessness of childhood. He missed the way Sammy stunk of kid sweat and dirt and cheap shampoo, sometimes vanilla if he’d been eating ice-cream. Seemed just like yesterday, wasn’t that the old adage?  
  
He smiled faintly and shook off the melancholy. _Stop being such a girl, Winchester._ To counter the sappiness, he snagged a wad of rags—old blood-stained t-shirts—and headed outside to change the oil in the Impala. John expected him to take care of the car too, which Dean far preferred; it ate less and didn’t smart back.

  
  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  
Dean opened the envelope and thumbed through the soft, worn bills inside. Thirty dollars. That was it. And this was supposed to last them until month’s end? Something bitter sat on the back of Dean’s tongue. Tasted like fear.  
  
 _Boys,_ \--the contained note read-- _we’re not in service range for phones, or else I’d call. The abiku caught wind of us, left the area, but we’re on its trail. It’s wounded, not hard to track. Shouldn’t be but a week to end it, few days to drive back. I’ll call when we’re out of the mountains. Sam, do well on your midterms. Dean, take care of the car. Be home soon. ~Dad_  
  
Sam was watching Dean with sharp eyes; he didn’t miss much, even though Dean carefully arranged his expression as he folded up the note and slid it back in the envelope.  
  
“So?”  
  
“So what, Sam?”  
  
“What’d Dad say, jerk?”  
  
Dean dragged his hand down his face, landing it on his hip. His gut coiled with stale anxiety, the sort he always felt when Dad didn’t come home when he was supposed to. This was getting fucking old, especially now that Sam was older. More of a headache. Dean couldn’t lie to him or distract him with army men and Legos, or bribe him with walks to a neighborhood park. It was so much harder to buy Dad time, and keep up the façade of ‘we’re fine’.  
  
“He won’t be back for a couple more weeks but he’s safe; so’s Caleb.” Dean waved the trio of ten-spots for Sam to see. “This is all we’ve got until then. So you’ve gotta reign in your eating machine. Grow it up, Sam. The car needs gas and we’re out of milk, _again_ and I just went to the store yesterday. And when was the last time you ran? Or target practiced? Christ, do I have to _force_ you to do everything Dad wants?” He heard his voice escalating, harsh and nasty, but he couldn’t stop; it felt good to get this shit off his chest. It’d been a long time building.  
  
Sam just blinked. He had a bag of off-brand chips in his hand, but he set that on the table when Dean finally stopped to draw a breath. “Dude. Sorry. I…didn’t think…”  
  
“I know, Sam. You just didn’t _think_. So what else is new?”  
  
“Okay. Okay, I get it – ”  
  
“Do you, Sam?” Dean slapped the envelope down on the table beside the chips and plodded off to the kitchen to confiscate their last beer. He felt Sam’s eyes on his back.  
  
“Yeah, I do.” Sam said softly, but not so softly Dean didn’t hear. “I really do.”

  
  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  
Sam did get it; he got it when he had to. Dean could tell. It was all in the way Sam stopped being a human vacuum cleaner with their meager groceries. In the way he finally did his own laundry and woke up an hour earlier in the mornings to get in a run, even before Dean had the coffee made. Sometimes breakfast was that selfsame coffee, or a piece of fruit as Sam darted out the door for the bus.  
  
The thirty bucks was holding out, marginally. It made Dean feel accomplished, like Dad had challenged him to thrive and he _did_. They both did. Sam went from a whiney, puberty-ridden brat to a hunter-on-the-cusp in a matter of weeks. He was still willful and sulky, but he seemed to have his priorities realigned - to Dean’s specifications.  
  
Sometimes Dean got the feeling Sam was just trying to shut him up, get him to stop nagging about this, that or the other. But they were brothers; that was the way it should be. And in their line of work, it could mean life or death. You slipped up, something ate your face. It was that simple.  
  
They still fought. God, how they fought. Over the stupidest things, like music in the car or urban legend trivia or who was taller. Sam was winning that last battle; the kid couldn’t stop growing. But Dean was still king of the television. Monday Night Football trumped Nova every single time, even if Sam really wanted to watch an episode on epigenetics over the Cowboys. Dean would not relinquish the remote. It was his legacy as the first born to dictate such vital decisions, even if he wasn’t the biggest anymore.  
  
“Respect your elders, Sammy,” he said smugly, snagging the remote from Sam’s grip.  
  
“Suck it, Dean, genetics are cool. Football is a bunch of goons running into each other and chasing a giant turd.” He dove for the remote in a replay of last month’s grapple. They both thudded to the floor in a wild tangle of arms and legs, wrestling for a position of power and possession of the hallowed and mighty channel-changer.  
  
Again, Sam managed to gain the advantage over Dean and they wound up pressed chest to chest, faux-snarling right in each other’s faces before Dean could get a hand in between and grab a fistful of his brother’s stomach in another painful squeeze. He’d go for the family jewels if he had to; all’s fair in war and television. He scrabbled at Sam’s middle, past the sweatshirt and t-shirt and dug with his fingers for purchase. His fingertips slipped together; there was nothing to tweak but skin, flat skin, and muscle. Dean couldn’t get a grip. Sam coughed out a laugh because apparently, he was ticklish when he wasn’t trying to be a bad-ass. Dean took that opening and levered a flip with one shove of his leg, spinning Sam underneath.  
  
Sam winced as his head hit the floor, a sheen of sweat sticking his unkempt hair to his forehead. “Get off,” he whined but Dean had him pinned solidly, staring. “Jesus, come on, Dean – ”  
  
“You need to train harder.” Dean plucked the remote away and rolled off.  
  
Sam drew up on one elbow. “Um. Okay.”  
  
Dean dragged himself onto the couch and changed the channel, leveling his gaze at the TV and nothing else.  
  
  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖  
  
  
 _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ That’s all Dean could say to himself, staring at the ceiling as he heard the front door slam. His palm was wrapped around his cock for the habitual morning wank-off since he couldn’t fall back to sleep. It was five fucking a.m. in the morning, Saturday. Barely light enough to see. And Sam was up, running. Dean was pretty sure Sammy hadn’t even hit the kitchen first. Every day for the past week, up and running at dawn. Dean waited until Sam’s footfalls had faded past the small house, then finished his business. _What the fuck was wrong with…him?_  
  
Dad was late, of course. He’d called from some shit town named Buford, said two days, at the outside. How was the money holding out? _It’s gone, Dad._ You need anything? I’ll pick it up on the way in. _Sure. Sure, Dad. Get milk. And hamburger, and -_ I’ll take you guys out to dinner when I get in. Then we’ll go shopping. _Right. Okay. ‘Bye._  
  
After an hour of restlessness, Dean got up, showered and dressed. He checked Sam’s room, no sign of him yet and that made Dean’s spine itch like anxiety under his skin. His belly complained so Dean drifted into the kitchen. They still had eggs, half a loaf of bread. Coffee. The cheese was probably good, but that was the extent of it. It would do. He could hit the Piggly Wiggly later and steal whatever they needed for lunch. Maybe tonight he’d shoot darts at the bar at the end of Cedar, scam enough to see them through until John’s return. (Dean had a hard time thinking of him as ‘Dad’ when this shit started to happen.)  
  
But that was the life.  
  
By the time Sam got in, Dean had a veritable banquet on the table. A half-dozen eggs scrambled with cheddar, dry toast, black coffee, a near-forgotten can of pears. Could’ve been worse. Hell, it _had_ been worse in the recent past.  
  
“Grub’s up,” Dean hollered as Sam toed off his sneakers.  
  
“Awesome. Shower first –”  
  
“Nope. Food’ll get cold. Eat first.”  
  
Sam pulled off his hoodie and watched Dean with narrowed eyes. “You sure?  
  
“Sure, I’m sure.”  
  
Dean was already heaping eggs on plates and distributing toast when Sam sat down. He looked up, watching Sam pick up his fork and spin it in his fingers absently. Sam had really long fingers, and Dean was surprised he was just now noticing this. “Dude, is that my t-shirt?”  
  
Sam made a face. “No. Why would I wear your stupid t-shirt?”  
  
“’Cuz then you’ll look all cool and shit, instead of like an alpha geek?”  
  
“Shut up,” Sam said without any real irritation. He poked at his eggs and took a bite. “So this is it, huh?”  
  
Dean raised his brows, not sure what Sam was working at.  
  
“I mean, the food. This is it. All that’s left.”  
  
“Yeah. But Dad’s on his way – ”  
  
“He’s been on his way for a week now, Dean.”  
  
“I talked to him yesterday, Sammy. It’s cool, I promise.”  
  
Something disconcerting flickered across Sam’s eyes. Something Dean could barely read because he hadn’t seen it in so long and it didn’t belong on a young man’s face. Six-year-old Sam’s, maybe, but not on this one’s. For just a heartbeat, Sam looked…lost. Young and hapless and completely adrift. “You promise?” His voice hitched and he cleared his throat.  
  
Dean sat up a little taller, settled confidence in his grin and spoke as though he held all the fortunes in the cookie box. “Yeah. Yeah, I promise, Sammy. Now eat.”

  
  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  
Wednesday, Dean was banned from the Piggly Wiggly for trying to lift a couple of steaks. The area wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis; there wasn’t another major grocery chain around to hit for one-stop shoplifting, so he resorted to thieving whatever he could from the gas station convenience store. Then some nosy old lady across the street got wise to the general situation (if not the specifics) and clued him into a local church food pantry. All the boxed mac-n-cheese and canned green beans a body could want.  
  
But really, how much of that crap could a person tolerate and for how long? It became a sort of game, a budget challenge. And Dean liked setting the rules.  
  
They had the foodstuff sorted out by days, by meals. Sam was remarkably compliant, though it shouldn’t have surprised Dean all that much. The kid was starting to appreciate order. He appreciated knowing exactly how many days John was late (John and Caleb had bumped into an elusive, vengeful haunt around Fairfield so a “few more days” turned into a “few more weeks”), and how to stretch a can of stolen Spam into three meals, and how to find time to get an extra jog in before dark. In fact, he got kinda pissy when Dean rocked his schedule so they tried to stick to the plan as much as possible.  
  
And fact of the matter, Dean liked it that way too. He liked telling Sam when he could have toast and when he couldn’t because they needed it for grilled cheese that night. Dean liked having all the answers, being the one who called the shots.  
  
Sam still bickered with him about school and television and laundry, but not about food. Hell, he practically waited for Dean to give him permission to eat, because that way they knew there’d be enough. John or no, this was something incredibly important they could control, they could handle. John simply wasn’t in the loop anymore.  
  
It was just Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam, figuring this out and making it work.  
  
Dean managed to score an off-the-books job, bar-backing, and he could grab a sandwich and beer there. Unfortunately, by the time 2:00 a.m. rolled around, there wasn’t much he could bring home to Sam. Nothing but day-old rolls some nights, though every little bit helped. Left to his own devices, Sam would stick to the food Dean had on the agenda. Sometimes Dean would find half a plateful tidily wrapped in Saran and stashed in the ‘fridge.  
  
Just being frugal, he figured. But that was before he caught sight of Sam after a run early one evening.  
  
Dean was readying for his shift at the Cedar Street Pub. They were both trying to use the lone bathroom at the same time, crossing paths in and out of the shower. Nothing unusual.  
  
Sam was sweaty and wrapped in an old robe that had once belonged to their dad. He was practically swallowed up in the thing except where the sleeves were too short and Sammy’s wrists popped out, slim and moving quickly over the shower knobs. Sam had grown again, another inch, maybe two. There must be giants somewhere in the Winchester gene pool, Dean thought incredulously. He busied himself with shaving at the sink, eyeing Sam’s reflection in the mirror, watching as his brother collected a towel and hung it on the rack by the shower, steam slowly filling the bath. Sam shrugged out of the robe and folded it, placing it on the back of the commode. He took a moment to piss and Dean cast a quick, sideways glance.  
  
“Watch the shoes…” he murmured, to which Sam scoffed.  
  
But shit. Dean hardly recognized Sammy. He had to swallow and steady his hands on the sink. Sam’s skin was flushed from the recent exercise and it gloved around an incredible collection of bones that Dean had never seen before. Not on himself, not on…anything living.  
  
Dean hadn’t ever expected Sammy to look anything like him. John’d always said Dean resembled the Campbell side of the family, with his bowed legs and barrel-chest, freckles and a natural athlete’s physiology. Sam was all Winchester, dark and brooding. They looked very little alike, truth be told. Maybe the same stubborn cleft chins but that was the extent of it.  
  
Now, they were hardly even the same species, to Dean’s stunned observation. Sam was downright fucking slender. He was all long, muscled lines and the silhouette of sinew and bone. When he shook off, flushed the toilet and turned to draw back the shower curtain, Sam’s every move caused hard ripples under the papery flesh. It was disoreinting. Dean ripped his eyes away and turned on the cold water, splashing handfuls on his face. He was finished shaving anyway; that’s what he told himself.  
  
It was wrong, all wrong. How had this happened? How had Dean let this happen? When had Sam gone from soft and childish and self-indulgent to _this_?  
  
And why did Dean like what he saw?  
  
It was all wrong.

  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  
  
But ‘all wrong’ became the norm, because it worked for them. Dean measured their safety, their food stores, in the number of tendons he could count on the back of Sam’s hand. He knew he had lost weight too, but hauling kegs, tables, and drunks at the pub kept him needing fuel, requiring the muscle if not the bulk.  
  
Sam, however, was a mathlete. He studied hard and ran in the mornings and after school when the weather permitted, sometimes even when it didn’t and Dean would have to get in the car and look for him. Drag him home. Strip him out of his wet, frozen clothes and draw a steaming bath. Stare at how he had turned blue and chattered his teeth and the very ribs in his chest shivered.  
  
Dean would roam over Sam’s back with a rough washcloth because it felt good and Sam would let him. He would count the vertebrate, watch the wetness pool in the concave valleys around his brother’s collarbones and pour hot water over his hair until his skin took on color.  
  
As soon as Sam would step out of the warm bathroom though, he’d be chilled again and shuddering; Dean would buffer him with threadbare towels right from the dryer. He could wrap an entire hand around Sam’s upper arm, swaddle the kid in terrycloth over every knob and ridge and tight tuck of his waist. Sam’s eyes would drift closed and he’d lean into Dean with so much trust, it would make Dean stir.  
  
It roused him that Sam had such faith, believed he could always make it better. He was truly the protector now. As it should be.

  
  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  
  
John finally called, a day out of town. He had money and would have groceries by the time he hit home. Sam was watching Dean when the call came in. His stare was nervous, big and hazel and unblinking, cheeks drawn tensely.  
  
“Yeah, Dad, we’re good. We’re really good.” Dean smiled but he was pretty damned sure the smile didn’t reach his eyes.  
  
Sam was twisting his spidery fingers and Dean could almost see his heart pounding through the thin t-shirt he’d slept in. It was Sunday; neither of them had anywhere to be so they were sitting around in whatever passed as pajamas, drinking black coffee and reading the paper. Sam, half-way looking for a local hunt, Dean cruising the comics.  
  
“Of course the guns are clean.” Pause. Dean’s brows tugged. “Yeah, and the car looks great. Oil changed and everything.”  
  
Dean listened a few seconds more, grunted a “Sure” and offered the phone to Sam.  
  
Sam took it hesitantly, staring at the thing as though it were a brick of shit before answering. “Dad?”  
  
John spoke a good long time, Sam just nodding, a muscle in his jaw twitching often. It wasn’t a look Dean liked. It made Sam appear tautly drawn, not sleek and whippet-thin, the cords in his neck working as he swallowed audibly. The murmur of John’s tinny voice filled the air with all the charm of a swarm of bees. Finally, Sam spoke. His voice was stiff. “Yeah, Dad. Dean’s fine. See you tomorrow.”  
  
Sam dropped the phone on the table and just stared at Dean. Neither of them needed to speak. They both knew what the other was thinking. Their delicate balance was in peril. The boat was about to get rocked. As much as family mattered, in this moment, it really didn’t.  
  
Because the world was just Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam, figuring this out and making it work.  
  
Dean sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. They hadn’t been shooting in two, three weeks though John would have expected them to practice. He still didn’t like Sam’s expression.  
  
“Come on. Get dressed. Grab the knives. Let’s throw.” The gun range cost money they couldn’t spare, so knives it was.  
  
Sam folded his arms over his chest, making sharp peaks of his shoulders. The “no” was implied.  
  
“Sammy, come on.”  
  
He didn’t budge.  
  
Dean circled the table and put an arm around his brother. He swore he almost felt corners, the edges of bone, nothing supple or forgiving. Except that Sam, himself, wilted, folding to snug into Dean’s side, arms still secured around his chest but leaning. Reluctantly needy.  
  
“Hey. It’s cool. We’ll deal.” Dean pressed his nose into Sam’s bent head, right at the nape where the hair was soft and smelled lightly of soap and salt. “Nothing’s gonna change. We’ll deal like we do.”

  
  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  
The morning of Johns’ return, Sam ran as he always did. Dean spent the time cleaning the house, making sure the weapons were spotless and the Impala had no lingering purple bird shit on the hood from parking beneath the mulberry tree. The beds were made, laundry neatly folded and ready to be packed if John was uprooting them again, which was exactly what Dean expected to happen. He was rinsing out coffee mugs in the kitchen when he heard thumping on the porch. A glance at his watch told him it was too soon for their dad.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
No answer.  
  
Dean threw down his dishtowel and made a bee-line for the front of the house. Something was blocking the sidelight window, a figure’s dark shape visible through the cheap, translucent curtain. Clearly, the person wasn’t trying to be sneaky. He jerked open the door and there was Sam.  
  
“Dude. What the hell?”  
  
Sam had pressed himself flat against the house. He was trembling. Waxy. His face the color of skim milk, a bewildering, bleached gray.  
  
Dean caught him as he slid down the window. Sam’s knees completely buckled, and he sagged into Dean’s arms with no resistance. It was hardly an effort to haul Sammy upright, little more than a bundle of twigs in cloth. With a mumbled expletive, Dean lugged Sam inside, draping him carefully on the worn, old couch.  
  
“Sammy. Come on. Wake up. Snap to, man.” Dean took his chin in hand, shook him. Sam drifted out a tiny moan, lids fluttering, but he couldn’t rouse more than to wheeze under Dean’s grip. “Sam, damn it, come _on_.” Dean’s voice broke, tight with panic, and he slapped a cheek hard enough to leave pink. Sam’s eyes finally dragged open, bleary and unfocused.  
  
“D-Dean? Wha –”  
  
Dean breathed an enormous huff of relief, willing his heart to start beating again. “What are you doing, passing out like this?!”  
  
“I dunno, Dean.” He tried to sit up but Dean firmly pressed him flat to the couch. Sam’s middle dipped dangerously, so fucking hollow beneath the edge of his ribcage.  
  
“Did you eat this morning?”  
  
Sam looked confused, trying to remember, probably still seeing the world through a fog. “Did you, um, make breakfast? I don’t know. I just…”  
  
No, Dean didn’t make breakfast this morning. He’d grabbed his left-over sandwich from last night then got distracted cleaning. He had completely forgotten about Sam. How could he forget about Sam?  
  
Dean winced and brushed the sticky hair from Sam’s forehead. No, his _skull_. God, Dean could see the fine ridge of cheekbone just under the eye socket. He rubbed his thumb over the skin there, so thin. So basic. So broken down to the very skeleton that made up Sam. It was horrible and beautiful.  
  
“Sorry,” Dean murmured, and Sam smiled, dimples digging into the hollowed cheeks. “Stay put. I’ll take care of you. Stupid kid.”  
  
Sam lifted his hand, wanly flipping Dean the bird. But he was still smiling.

  
  
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  
Dean watched from the porch as Caleb dropped John off at the end of the sidewalk, waved out the truck window and left. Didn’t hardly stop. Guess he had someplace more important to be. But John was beaming. Bruise-eyed and raggedy, grinning as he walked up to his sons. Sam was sitting in an old lawn chair, swimming in layers of t-shirt and flannel and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head and his shaggy hair disguising the deep set of his eyes. There was petulance written all over his posture. John might’ve been blind to many things but he didn’t miss the body language when it was right in front of him. He gave his pack to Dean and tried to ruffle Sam’s hair but his youngest pulled away.  
  
John slowly dropped his hand. “Sorry, boys. I know it’s been a long time. But we got it. Tricky sonofabitch. Let me take a shower real quick and we’ll grab lunch.”  
  
Dean shouldered the backpack, noting it smelled a little gamey or maybe that was just his dad. Sam finally released some of his irritability and stood to collect a rifle case.  
  
Pausing, John looked Sam over cursorily. It seemed to occur to him, as an afterthought, that before he left he didn’t have to cant his head upwards to look Sam in the eye. “Getting’ big, son.” He nodded and entered the house, clearly expecting his boys to follow.  
  
Dean hesitated and let Sam pass, mostly because he felt something was amiss. Tension was caught in the air like a fly in a spider’s web. Sam’s carriage struck Dean as peculiar, and John missed it this time because he wasn’t looking for it. Wasn’t really seeing Sam.  
  
Clutching Sam’s elbow, Dean spun him around. Yeah, this was not right. His brother’s breath was hitching in his fragile chest, eyes so full of fierce anxiety it made Dean’s gut constrict. They watched each other until they heard the shower start up from within the small rental.  
  
Sam exhaled steam on the biting air. His chin trembled. He tugged his jeans back up over the jut of his hipbones. Dean made a note to stab another notch in Sammy’s belt.  
  
“Listen to me,” Dean said, low and rough and certain. “Nothing’s gonna change. We carry on. It’s you and me and me and you and we’ll figure it out; we’ll make it work.”

 

 


End file.
